I Swore to Protect You
by Dagorloth
Summary: Short Story. On the hills of Amon Hen, Boromir, son of Gondor, tries to make amends for his failures by sacrificing what is most precious… his life.


**I Swore to Protect You  
**By: Rai  
Rated: PG-13

**Author's Note:** Presenting to you, **A Tale from the Hall of Fire**, and my first Boromir fan fiction. This was the most difficult of all my short stories I have written to date, as it required delving into the life of one I am not too familiar with, that being a certain Captain of Gondor. I have nothing but the deepest respects for Boromir, however, I am not what one may call a 'fangirl', and so had quite the hard time channelling his spirit, so to speak.  
I try though, so I hope this satisfies those of you who are fans of him, and even those of you who are not. But most of all, I hope you enjoy this as simply a story.  
A very **BIG** thank you goes to b2wm for betaing this for me. She did a great job and I thank her for the advice and the corrections. If not for her, I'd probably still be niggling over this. -heh-  
**Spoiler:** Spoils the ending of _Fellowship_ (and basically all that comes before it) and the beginning of _The Two Towers - _of the books mind you. In the movieverse, it really only spoils the end of _Fellowship_.  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner nor creator nor the writer of Middle-earth or _The Lord of the Rings, _nor am I owners of any of the movies. I am not making any money out of this and am doing this for pure personal enjoyment.  
Any canonical and grammar errors are slips of my own (and will be glad to correct it if pointed out -and thank you Bubonic Woodchuck for pointing one out).  
**Synopsis:** On the hills of Amon Hen, Boromir, son of Gondor, tries to make amends for his failures by sacrificing what is most precious… his life.

* * *

"We shall all be scattered and lost," groaned Aragorn. He quickly snatched his sword from where he had carefully placed it when the Fellowship had made camp on Parth Galen above the Rauros, but could only watch despairingly as everyone broke off into three groups at the news of the Ringbearer's disappearance, scattering like the wind. It was as if a sudden panic or madness had fallen on them, and the ranger could feel his control over the situation slip dangerously. 

Grey eyes met grey eyes as Aragorn turned to Boromir, the only one who had yet to flee the camp in search for Frodo. "Boromir!" the ranger called severely, "I do not know what part you have played in this mischief, but help now! Go after those two young hobbits, and guard them at the least, even if you cannot find Frodo. Come back to this spot, if you find him, or any traces of him. I shall return soon."

As Aragorn sprang swiftly away from the campsite of the Company in pursuit of Sam, Boromir paused briefly in shock as he realized again the full extent of what he had done, letting the cold, hard, painful facts process itself in his mind.

He had tried to take the Ring from Frodo. And now the Ringbearer had fled, and the Fellowship has been divided and scattered.

Boromir, Captain of Gondor, the son of the Steward and most hardy of all the men of Gondor, had been first to succumb to the temptations of the Ring.

He had always prided himself as a strong man, a worthy man. So it had been proclaimed in the city of Minas Tirith, where his praises were sung high and his name was revered by all. But now he felt that those acclaims were reduced to base and trivial words; worth nothing.

He deserved nothing.

He strode away resentfully, following the clear, high cries of the two hobbits, Merry and Pippin, as they wandered aimlessly in search of the Ringbearer shouting "_Frodo! Frodo!_" He trailed swiftly after their calls, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings, for a sudden premonition of dread had descended on Boromir and he urged himself to move forward faster. Though he understood it not, he did not like it.

As he crashed through the underbrush that was Amon Hen, he suddenly began to chide himself for his earlier self-doubt, realizing his own foolishness for nearly allowing himself to be taken by it. Now was not the time to pity one's self. Self-pity gets one nowhere, except on a path to despair. And despair, for all that had happened, was not yet something he was willing to succumb to yet.

No matter what had come to past, he was still a man of Gondor. And with what little honour and dignity he had left in him, he intended to see to it that these Halflings remained safe.

He grimaced as he continued his way uphill, tearing a path through the dead foliage of late winter. He anxiously scanned the horizon for any sign of the two hobbits, following their desperate cries. He could feel his frustration mounting slightly as he steeled himself to an even quicker pace, wondering precisely how fast and far can a hobbit run, for all their small size. The feeling of dread seemed to be mounting within Boromir's soul, and he knew he had to find Merry and Pippin soon, or else all will fall into chaos.

A sudden sharp cry of surprise came from the hobbits ahead of him, causing Boromir to pause hesitantly as he wondered if they had found Frodo by some chance.

His sword rang sharply as he drew the blade from its sheath at the sounding of the second cry that soon followed. He launched himself needlessly forward, for he recognized the harsh, coarse voices that had erupted before him. He has heard it many times before in his life: Orcs.

The trees passed him by like a blur as he sped towards the rising commotion, hoping beyond hope that he would make it to the hobbits before any ill fate befell them. A pang of guilt shot through his heart as he willed himself to move forward faster, as a voice full of accusation whispered to him that if they were to fall, he was to the one to be blamed for their untimely end. For was it not because of he that had driven the Ringbearer away, and so had sent Merry and Pippin into danger because they now had to search for him?

Suddenly he saw them as he broke through a thicket of trees that had blocked his view of them earlier. The hobbits and the Orcs were in desperate battle, though unlike the two hobbits, the Orcs had no weapon in hand. They instead seemed more concerned about laying hold on them, though Merry's blade dripped the dark blood of those who had tread too near to him as he nimbly dodged between those loathsome hands that tried to grab him. But Boromir took not the time to fathom this strange fact, for he saw that Pippin was less lucky than his friend as he struggled valiantly under the wretched grip of an Orc on his shoulder, crying out angrily as he tried to stab the one who held him fast.

With a great and fearsome yell, Boromir raced out from the trees towards the two endangered hobbits. A single and powerful sweep of his blade removed the arms of the Orc that held Pippin, the Man's eyes blazing as he turned the direction of his sword so to cut right through the exposed midsection of the foul being. He blinked as black blood splattered him lightly as both halves of the creature tumbled to the ground.

"Boromir!" cried Pippin as the Man spun on his heels. He nudged the two hobbits behind him as the Orcs quickly recovered from their initial shock, snarling with rage as they drew weapons at last, the sun glinting dully off the metal of their blades.

"Stay close to me, young Halflings, and keep those weapons high," he gasped before he shifted his sword up into a defensive position, effectively countering a downward sweep of an Orc blade, before carrying his weapon across, slicing keenly through the goblin's skull. He quickly ducked as another blow swept above him as he sent a powerful thrust forward, the blade sinking into an attacking foe's abdomen, spinning the weapon effectively before drawing it out as he kicked at the feet of another Orc, effectively tripping it. The hobbits were quick to pounce, lodging their blades firmly into the fallen creature's dark heart as Boromir grabbed the wrist of an Uruk-Hai with a knife as it tried to stab him in the face. The Gondorian's blade cascaded down into the extended arm, black blood dripping heavily from the open wound, before kicking the wounded enemy into the exposed weapon of the goblin behind him. An Uruk's knife in hand, Boromir sent it flying into the face of another foe, halting its advance as it fell backwards, slain.

Sweat poured down Boromir's face as his sword delivered death to all foes that dared advance on him. He sent an Orc flying into a nearby tree with the flat of his blade. He gritted his teeth as he barely managed to behead a goblin that tried to lunge at the hobbits. The blow sent a cascade of dark blood onto the forest floor and onto the stunned Halflings, who raised their arms to shield themselves from it. He turned his sword to stop a sideways sweep at his neckline. His arms were growing weary of the constant pressure and strain he exerted on them as he kicked out at the foe behind him before he twisted around, using the momentum of the spin to add speed to his weapon as he swung low across the Orc's legs. He stumbled slightly as the creature toppled to the ground, but was quick to recover as he turned to face his next opponent. He instead found none.

"Look, they're fleeing!" cried Merry suddenly, and Boromir looked up to realize that the Halfling spoke the truth, noting the retreating forms of the remaining Orcs as they fled, their feet pounding the ground beneath them as they scurried away. Though glad for the respite, Boromir remained highly wary. This was a calculated retreat, despite the fact that there was no horn or call signalling it. It was too well timed to have been anything but.

He turned to the two hobbits with a sigh, glad to see that they were uninjured, though highly shaken. He looked upon their frightened, dirt-smeared faces sympathetically. It had not been only he who had fended off the Orcs; they too had engaged in battle, and their blades were wet with the black blood of the goblins.

"Are you both in good health, hobbits?" he asked quietly as he knelt to quickly wipe his blood-sodden blade on the body of an Orc he had slain to clean the sword, though he did not sheath his weapon.

"We've been better, thank you," said Pippin grimly as he clutched his blade tightly in his fist, his face pale, though he tried hard to maintain a brave exterior.

"Well I hope you are well enough, so that we can leave here and return to camp as swiftly as possible," said Boromir grimly as he stood, looking around suspiciously. "I do not need to tell you that there are Orcs about, and that we are in a most dismal position right now if they were to attack again. They know we are here now, and if there are more of them, then we would be in great danger. Keep those blades in hand, young Halflings, we may need them ere the end."

The hobbits exchanged a glance. "But what about Frodo?" asked Merry flatly. "What if they've got _him_?"

Boromir blinked at the unexpected question, alarm suddenly racing through his thoughts as he considered the possibility. If they had captured the Ringbearer, then all would be lost to Middle-earth. And it would be because Boromir had been the one to drive him away.

No! He could not think of such things. The Gondorian quickly pushed the dark thought from his mind as he said, "Nay, Merry. If they had the Ringbearer already, I do not think they would attack us. He is not with them, and his weapon Sting will be sure to keep him away from any Orc. I think we ought to fear more for ourselves than for Frodo right now."

"But…" started Pippin, but his voice trailed off fearfully as the harsh call of an Orc horn reverberated in the hills.

"Alas!" cried Boromir, turning swiftly towards the direction which the horn had sounded, "we have wasted too much time here, my friends. Danger is on our heels! Let us flee hobbits, to a safer haven!"

They needed no second urging, fear already high in their hearts at the knowledge that their enemies were near as they raced eastward, back towards the river.

Boromir followed closely in the rear as they treaded an uneven course down the hill again, scanning the horizon fearfully as he urged the hobbits to move onward ever more swiftly, looking over his shoulder as he scouted the terrain. Fear gnawed his heart as he yanked loose the Horn of Gondor that had been tied to his belt for much of the journey south, ready to blow at a moment's notice if things became dire.

Once the Orcs found them, there was little hope in secrecy. And he could not fight those Orcs and protect the two Hobbits by himself.

They broke through into a clearing, a small glade that Boromir recognized to be not too far from the river. And there had no sign of their enemies in pursuit. Boromir could feel his troubled heart lift a little, but only slightly, as he called out to the Halflings, "Keep going, my friends," he encouraged. "We are nearly-"

Pain engulfed his senses as a sharp, painful object thrust itself into his left leg, causing the world about him to spin wildly as he stumbled under its force, falling forward, gasping under the immense pain that rippled through his very being.

He faintly heard the cruel harsh call of the enemy as he turned his head to see what he knew was already there. A great rabble of Orc and Uruk-Hai had just crested the hill above them as they looked down upon the three of them in the open glade. There were many of them, a hundred at least, or more, their dark, sneering faces looking down upon him as some began to slowly march down the hill towards the glade, laughing, while others began loading their bows, training black arrows onto him.

"Boromir!" cried to two hobbits as they ran to their fallen comrade, fear in their eyes.

He turned, his face drawn as he looked upon them. "What are you doing here still?" he hissed causing them to stop in their tracks to stare at him, confused. He snapped the shaft that was attached to the arrowhead in his leg quickly, wincing as the action added pressure to his wound as he cried: "Do not just stand there! Run!"

"But… you are hurt," said Pippin hesitantly, his eyes trained on the growing red stain where the projectile had embedded itself into his calf.

Boromir quickly rose to his feet, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the hilt of his blade in his right hand, trying hard to ignore the pain that throbbed against the weight he exerted on his leg. He gave them a hard glare. "I shall be fine! Now go!"

"We are not leaving you to face that many of them alone," growled Merry has he held up his sword in a readied stance. "You will die."

"As will you if you stay! And I cannot look after you both while holding them off!" Boromir cried desperately as he watched as those Orcs drew back their bows. "And what good would it do if you were to die as well? Please, for the love of all things that is good on this earth, run!"

"Look out!" cried Pippin as the arrows were loosed, but Boromir needed no warning as he dove to the side, away from the hobbits, as many arrows peppered the ground where he had once stood. He turned as he watched them reload, leaping aside once more as they fired again, his wound throbbing excruciatingly as he placed his weight on it.

Arrows, there were only arrows.

A cold thought crept into his mind as he watched the archers reload yet again. They did not shoot at the hobbits, only him. They had no intention of killing the hobbits, though why he could not fathom and now was not the time to puzzle out such a riddle. But him…

They intended to shoot at him until he was slain.

He dove again as another volley aimed at him rained down upon him. Resolve and desperation written on his features, he took the Horn of Gondor to his lips and blew. If ever there was a time of need, now was such a time.

The trees shivered as a great call rang about the woods of Amon Hen. He blew again, the sound clearer and louder, its cry echoing in the hills and surrounding areas. The Orcs before him snarled in anger at the sound. They took several steps away from the Man as he let loose another forlorn blast. Merry and Pippin stared in awe before looking around desperately, hoping that their friends had heard the call and were on their way. But as cry after cry produced no result, Boromir could see the hope fade from their eyes as no one came. And he could see the fear leave their enemy's eyes and the swords leave their sheaths.

The Orcs, as one, suddenly charged them as the last note fell from his failed call.

"Merry! Pippin!" cried Boromir desperately as he ducked to avoid the blade of one trying to behead him, took his sword, and with one hand, stabbed the creature into its abdomen. He withdrew it quickly to bring it up to cut through the head of another Orc that dared to draw too near him, watching the two halves topple haplessly onto the ground, spilling blood. Dodging the blade of an Uruk-Hai's he quickly took the Horn to his lips and blew again, diving behind a great tree as a volley of arrows aimed at him fell about him. He hoped beyond hope that one of the others was near and would hear and come to aid him, but as it was with the last, no one came.

Either they were too far to bring aid or were in danger themselves.

He ducked as he aimed at the legs of a goblin as it came running towards him, side-stepping a downward sweep that came from the Orc behind it, meant to slice him in two. He grimaced as the arrow in his calf impeded his step, causing him to stagger slightly. Hard, ragged gasps were the only sound coming from his lips as he wearily parried the Orc's thrust before removing the arm that held the weapon that threatened Boromir before disposing of his enemy's foul existence permanently.

Boromir could feel his strength leave him, and yet he fought on, meeting parry for parry, blade for blade. His breathing was laboured and thin, and yet he blew the Horn of Gondor until the hills rang.

But no help came.

He staggered slightly; his head light and his senses numb, as he took his horn to his lips again to blow yet another clear, desperate note.

The cry of the horn was cut off completely. Pain became the only emotion that echoed in his mind as he felt a single, cruel arrow dig deep into his abdomen, leaving him gasping for air. He looked to see Pippin and Merry, their faces smeared with Orc blood from the mighty battle that they too fought, staring at him openly; their eyes wide with an untold amount of fear as they looked upon him.

Boromir put a hand to the tree next to him, leaning heavily upon it as he tried not to collapse to his knees, a sudden wave of sadness filling his mind.

They should not be here. If it were not for him, they would not be in these woods, so far away from aid. If not for his weakness, they would not be in this type of peril.

And he would be responsible for what would befall them if he were to fail.

A sudden flame ignited from within his soul, a new light in his eyes as he realized his task. He was responsible for the fate of these hobbits, and for that, he would see to it that they live. He would not fail them! If by life or death he could protect them, he will. He must, for the fate of Middle-earth may rest upon it…

He would not fail them as he had failed Frodo.

He will redeem himself, even if he must die doing so.

His strength renewed, fed by that one resolution, he spun with a great cry, quickly countering the wide sweep of an Orc's, killing it swiftly as another rushed in to finish him. The rabble cried out in anger, for they had thought the Man to be unable to battle now. Instead it seemed to have made him fight back all the more powerfully as he slew another. Orders were made to shoot him again as stone tipped arrows were drawn back and fired. But Boromir was quick to dodge behind the tree as the volley fell. He could feel his strength wane once more, the arrows in him sapping much energy, but he fought on, ducking his head as another Orc rushed in to take him down, and he was forced away from the cover to which the tree had provided.

He was quick to hear the call of the Orc commander as it ordered for another volley, and so dove aside as arrows once again showered the area around him, but weariness had taken over, and he was not quick enough. He cried out in pain as two arrows embedded itself in his side before he could pull himself behind the great tree. He could hear the dull thuds as many more arrows sunk into the thick bark of the woodland giant as he looked upon the hobbits again as they tried to rush to Boromir's side, calling his name. But the Orcs were making it difficult as they tried to capture the two Halflings, though the hobbits fought back with every ounce of courage and strength they had.

Resolve formed in Boromir's mind once more as he watched them, perspiration dripped from his dark hair as he tried to breathe around those arrows embedded in him. With a gasp, he raised the Horn of Gondor once more, to let loose a single, final call, hoping that it might be his and the hobbit's final saving grace.

He did not see the goblin come. As the horn was being raised to his lips, an Orc scimitar came crashing down upon it, cleaving the object in two as it was forced from his grasp, and nearly cleaving Boromir's head. But he had ducked aside just before it was to crash down on his skull and instead it dug deeply into his left shoulder. He cried out from pain and anger at his own carelessness, as he sent his sword straight across to meet the Orc before his left arm could be swept from his body.

Blood dripped heavily from the open wound, and Boromir did not need to be told that his left arm was now useless, for only a dull throb told him that it was still there. Red mingled with black below him, painting the forest floor a grisly combination of colour. And as he staggered to the right, his mind fogged with pain, he turned around to see a volley of arrows suddenly descend on him.

He fell backward as many arrows found him. Only luck prevented an arrow from finding his heart and killing him instantly, as the impact threw him backward, pain becoming the only thing that reverberated in his mind. He did not know when he hit the ground, only that he suddenly felt the dead foliage of the forest floor beneath him, damp with his and his enemy's blood. He coughed weakly, choking as he pulled himself onto the side not impeded by arrows, as he tried to breathe around the pain and the coughs that shook his body, tears forming behind his eyes.

And yet, he was still unwilling to accept failure.

Steeling his gaze, he used the great tree next to him to try and get himself to his feet, but though he poured as much effort into it as he can, he was only able to get as far as an upright position, his back against the tree as he plucked an arrow from his shoulder as it impeded his arm, caring not for the pain or the damage it would do to him.

It mattered no more.

He faintly heard voices, calling to him '_Boromir! Boromir!_', their voice fraught with fear and alarm. He focused his eyes to see Merry and Pippin racing towards him, blade in hand as they cried out in fear.

He looked up, horror written on his features as he watched the hobbits race towards him, as he watched an Orc with a club come up behind them, weapon raised. As if in slow motion, he could only watch as the thick piece of wood descended upon the two hobbits' skulls. He could only watch as they both staggered and fell. He could only watch as two Orcs bound them and carried them away with a malicious grin.

And he could only watch as the Orcs let loose a triumphant cry.

"_No! It could not be!_" Accusation rang loud in Boromir's mind as he coughed blood, his head pounding from the pain he could barely endure as he breathed labouriously, his mind slowly coming to realize what had come to pass. How he had failed again. How he could not defend even two young hobbits from a fate worse than death. He had been entrusted into their care and yet he could not even succeed at that?

He had failed again.

Guilt swept over Boromir like a wave as unwept tears formed in his eyes, when he noticed through blurred vision, the feet of a heavily armoured Orc before him. He raised his head to see an Orc staring down at him cruelly, a malicious smile on its face as he slowly drew back his bow, a mere step away from the Man.

"Die, scum!"

Boromir's anger and rage was all that he had left in him, and he used it to add strength to his last defence. The sword in his right hand suddenly flashed as he lurched forward to stab the Orc in the abdomen, gritting his teeth, twisting the blade hard as the Orc fired, grazing Boromir's ear as the shot went wide of its intended target. Black blood flowed over his hands as he fell back again, breathing rapidly as the Orc fell dead.

Suddenly an Orc blade descended on his weapon, shattering his sword so that only the hilt was in his hand as he turned his head upward to see an Uruk-Hai snarling down at him, weapon raised. Boromir closed his eyes, wishing that death would find him swiftly, knowing that he had no strength left in him, when a call from the leader of the Orc's averted its attention.

"Leave the Man to die slowly and rot! We have what we want! Let's go!"

The Uruk graced Boromir with a chilling smile. "Lucky worm," he chuckled before he marched away, passing from Boromir's line of site as the Man sat back against the tree amongst the carcasses of the goblins he had slain. He could hear the rabble retreat, to where he did not know, but as the sound faded in the distance, he soon realized that he was alone.

So this was how he was going to die. He choked on a laugh as it got caught in his throat, splattering his tunic with more blood, the fabric darkened heavily by his own blood seeping from those arrow wounds in his chest. He knew in his mind that it will not be long before he perished, his life drained from his body, and though he had always pictured himself dying on the field of battle, always it had been a field of some victory and triumph. Never had expected to have died in such disgrace, alone, left in the company of Orcs; never had he thought to die with so little honour left to his name.

Silent tears coursed down his face as he closed his eyes, thinking back to how, in so little time, his life had descended into chaos and death, into dishonour and failure. All because he had been unable to resist the temptation, all because he wanted to save his people… because he had become consumed by the desire to save his city.

He had failed everyone: Gondor, the Fellowship, the hobbits… and himself.

It is over. The world of Men shall fall. And all shall come to darkness.

Sounds he heard, as another crashed into the glade, his voice mighty and high as he cried the name of _Elendil! _before he stopped, as if shocked by what he saw. For a brief second he stood in silence, before sense returned to him and so raced to where Boromir lay, with his back to the great tree.

Boromir heard the man kneel next to him in a respectful silence, and so he opened his eyes to look upon Aragorn, son of Arathorn, whose expression was full of confusion and grief. At length he strove to speak to him, and only after much time had pass could he summon slow words. "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," he said. "I am sorry. I have paid." His glance strayed to his fallen enemies; twenty there were, at least.

"They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them." He could not hide the guilt in his words as he looked up at the ranger, whose kind grey eyes stared sympathetically down at him. "I think they are not dead," he whispered. "Orcs bound them."

He paused again as his eyes closed wearily. A cold chill began to descend on his body as life began to fade from within. He could feel his breathing beginning to grow shallow, and the world about him beginning to darken. Desperately, he strove to speak again.

"Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed." His voice wobbled at that last sentence, unable, even as he could feel death take him, to hide those emotions that clawed at his soul.

"No!" cried Aragorn as he took Boromir's hand and kissed his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

"_I have conquered._" Those words warmed Boromir's heart as he smiled, as he tried to open his eyes to look up once more upon the ranger, upon Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But his eyes did not open, allowing only darkness as his grasp on the world about him faded. He tried to form words, but his lips refused to move, refused to form the words of gratitude he wished to share, as he realized, like a slow embrace, the truth in which Aragorn spoke.

"_I would have followed you my brother._" He sighed as he allowed death to take him, for he felt at peace, now that he had been granted it. He had redeemed his errors, if only in death. And now he can rest, knowing that he was not disgraced, that he was not weak.

Knowing that he had gained the victory he sought for himself.

He had kept his honour.

"_My captain._" He heard Aragorn begin to speak again. It was a question, but Boromir could not comprehend what. His voice seemed so far away now, and it almost grieved Boromir to leave without an answer. But Aragorn will eventually find the answers if he sought it. He was a wise and noble man; that Boromir knew.

He was Isildur's Heir, and Heir to the throne of Gondor.

"_My King._"

**The End**


End file.
